Forged North
by Arowen12
Summary: "He should probably write something to his yank of a brother. Instead, he passed the fag to Sam and memorized the faces of his comrades. He knew what the upcoming battle would hold for the infantry." The Great War, Canada's Baptism of Fire.
1. Vimy: April 9-12 1917

Hello everyone, I am here with a Canada-centric fic. This will mostly focus on Canada's battle in the First World War, before moving to the Second World War and other major historical events. I just have such a love for Canada (I am Canadian) and its history. This chapter is about Vimy Ridge, which celebrated it's centenary last April. I hope you all enjoy!  
*Note: Fag is used within the text as historically accurate slang for a cigarette. It is not meant to cause offense.

Matthew- Canada  
Alfred- America  
Arthur- England  
France- Francis  
Peyton- Saskatchewan  
Howard- Ontario  
Calen- Nova Scotia

Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya

X

Matthew felt the chill deep within his bones, he wondered absently if Nova scotia always felt it in his bones, the constant furrows beneath his skin. Sometimes Matt swore he could taste the coal dust from the smaller province, he wondered what it must be like for its incarnation. He had the vague sense that Calen was fighting closer to Belgium, could feel the man's weary in a distant sort of sense. The same weary that hung off his own shoulders and those of his troops.

Most of them would be arriving soon, his boys, he acknowledged with a faded kind of smile accompanied by a shiver. The four Canadian Corps united for the battle. It left a strange flutter in his chest, that reminded him of night and smoke, winter chills.

The light from the fire one of the boys had lit, a letter from Joe's brother in law, cast strange dancing shadows over hewn walls, and Matt squinted blearily at the rough carving he was attempting. It was a cross plain and simple. Would probably make Arthur proud or something. He didn't believe he had the skill to carve the regiment insignia like Thomas, and Jim would likely not lend Matthew his pen come hell or high water (not when he was in the middle of sketching a pig from his farm back home).

Laughter broke out from the small circle of men huddled around whatever else the soldiers had found to burn. Their voices were a kind of soothing rustle, even with the unnatural way they bounced and sputtered underground. It distracted him slightly to listen to their talk of home, and John's mother's best homemade pies in the damn world. Distracted him from the pain that has settled somewhere behind his heart, and lingered about his eyes like the cloudy fields.

He would go and join them in a minute, but for the moment he was sat beside Sam, wide-eyed bright Sam who had lost a brother and half his street. He reminded Matthew something fierce of Alfred. Bright laughing Alfred who has just entered the war, and wouldn't arrive for months at least. And he was damn thankful for the fact (though he wished Al would never face the war in the first place). But not for the soldier beside him who had lost the innocence of his youth (he was only eighteen now), for the distance in his gaze.

He winced faintly as the deep slinking sound of the miners picking away at France's veins sounded throughout the tunnels. They would be digging for days more, and Matthew didn't mourn their fate. The constant worry of collapse, the looming dark. He had been through the tunnels enough to carry Al's token clutched close to his heart whenever he walked there, with a half-prayer on his lips.

"Oy Matt get over here."

One of the men called out with the thick coastal accent familiar to New Brunswick, he had the vague impression it was Tim (Tim who had two daughters and a lovely wife). Shaking his head in good humour, Matt tucked his pocketknife into the convenient pocket at his side and slipped from the top bunk, which he had taken to soothe Sam's nerves (because there's always that nerve of constant collapse and shells falling on your head). Really, he couldn't help but care for his men it seemed. Not that he had ever minded, it was his will, what little he could do.

"Aye, quit yelling I'm coming."

Matt called back padding across the floor to the small circle of men, he distantly wondered if he should replace his boots, he thought that could be his sock peeking out from the bottom in the dim light. But he pushed the thoughts aside he could survive well enough without boots of perfect quality. Squishing in between John and Joe, Matt was passed a flask, filled with something foul, that could only really ever come from Scotland. He downed it anyway and passed it to Joe who winked at him with a grin.

"You hear what the Upper Command's planning?"

Jim questioned where he was turning something over in his hands, a kind of excitement to his eyes. Matt raised a brow as the other shared a few insults about certain overconfident French generals and useless British ones.

"Well, word is that the sods are really planning with their taking the ridge. And they're gonna give us maps and shite."

The soldier continued, and the others mumbled and grinned, and guffawed. Duly Matthew noted that he had to go and speak to Currie tomorrow (and Hygge who kind of didn't really exist but that was beside the point). He liked the general well enough, he had a good head on his shoulders and focused on saving lives and victory. Which placed him far above certain British commanders (again besides the point).

"Want a fag?"

Jim asked with a sly wink that was just all his playboy personality and a bit of respect. Matt nodded and took the proffered cigarette, he pulled out the lighter tucked into the inner breast of his pocket over his heart and flicked it. Watched the play of the small flame off of the engraved stars before he lit the fag and passed it to Jim. He took a slow lax drag of the cigarette, inhaling deeply, recalling faintly the dim scent of tobacco (that and lavender) that had clung to Francis whenever he had visited.

Matthew welcomed the burning inhale, pushed aside the acidic taste of something far worse and focused on Sam who had drifted over a sheet of paper clenched in his hands. Right the YMCA had delivered another merde carton of paper to the lines, god bless them. He should probably write something to his yank of a brother. Instead, he passed the fag to Sam and memorized the faces of his comrades. He knew what the upcoming battle would hold for the infantry.

X

The view reminded him of the air, the D.H he flew, rickety beauty she was. The curves and spins, daring manoeuvres, howling bite of wind in his face, the ethereal freedom of it all. The miniature scale of the battlefield was stretched out, rising in hills and fields, around Matthew as he surveyed the land (Francis's land) and the ridge. The godforsaken ridge that they would take come hell or high water. If Matt possessed anything inside his hollowed-out soul, it was determination and perseverance.

There was a gnat's sliver of hope hovering about his chest and drifting on the cool breeze that ruffled his (too) short hair. Currie's strategy actually might work. Oh, there would be casualties, it wasn't a battle without them, but they could conquer the ridge.

The attack plan consisted of a crawling barrage, a tactic the Germans had first come up with (and Matt has long surpassed the willful ignorance of the German Empire's engineering skills. Doesn't mean they aren't still right bloody bastards), it consisted of moving in three-minute intervals across the field. The space in between was filled with artillery to create a sort of curtain. It had worked before, but that was not all the former real estate agent was employing.

The rumours Jim had heard (probably from corporal Smithson), were correct. They were giving maps to all the soldiers, that and the miniature Matt was currently standing on in the faint early morning rays of April, to serve as a first-hand view.

The planning was beyond extensive, but he couldn't fault them for it. Not when England and France had failed to take the ridge. He could still see them in his mind's eye, Arthur, tired stressed Arthur recoiling from heavy losses and bruised all over. And Francis pale strained but stubborn man he was who had a half-wild fear about him. If they were going to attempt it then they would do it right he supposed, and they would conquer it.

A hand waved distant in his line of sight and Matt perked up following it to place Currie surrounded by a few others, mostly lieutenants and other such high command. For some reason anytime, anything of any sort of major seriousness was conducted Matt was called in. It was not like they couldn't figure it out on their own. He's not even that old

Shaking his head, Matt tucked his hands into his pockets fingering the already creased paper in his hands, Al's words comforting and light in a world his brother nation couldn't understand (Dear Mattie, are the girls in France hot? Lafayette always said they were gorgeous but not as beautiful as my women. Stay safe for me please). Striding over Matthew nodded to a few soldiers, watching as the large farm horses pulled the artillery about, the men directing it. On the other side of the clearing where the set was plotted he could see the man cleaning their guns basking in the faint spring sun.

"Williams."

The general intoned with a precise salute, Matt mirrored the gesture with a half-cocked smile. Currie only shook his head, most of the upper command knew of Matthew's status, it would be rather hard to explain away someone who's died from shrapnel to the heart, alive the next day. He thought the man liked him well enough, all though a certain amount of that was likely to Matt being his country.

In any case, he respected him well-enough, he'd already united the Canadians in a way that Matthew hadn't felt before. He felt it in his veins, in his heart (and maybe not so much Quebec), the stretch of the prairies, the fjords of British Columbia. Unity. It was not an unwelcome sensation.

The general grumbled good-naturedly under his breath about paperwork and stubborn (oh so very stubborn) British high command before he guided Matthew over to one of the maps spread out on the table. Howard was crouched over the table, the representation of Ontario had a bandage wrapped around his head, and was subtly holding a cigarette at his side. The province brightened upon seeing Matthew and pulled him into a half-hug before refocusing on the map. Together they went over the battle plan, Currie pointing out key features and Howard made sharp remarks every once and a while that cracked a smile across his features. And Matt couldn't help the stirring of excitement and nerves in his chest.

X

The air was thick with thick fog, and the acrid scent of smoke drifting from the artillery, the usual chaos of the battlefield stung Matt's lungs as he perched at the forefront of the trench. Jim was beside him, having finally ditched his cigarette, to stare at the untamed mass of barbed wire and the pockmarked land. The rounds continued for another minute, deafening, so much so that he would hear the ringing in his ears for days after (which was never helped by constant presence and firing on the battlefields).

The tension was tangible in the atmosphere, that eager desire to prove themselves, assurance and nerves. He could taste it all on his tongue, and feel it in the pinched corners of the grin splitting his features. It was a bloody horrible April morning to begin.

It took a moment more before the command rippled out across the front line and they were going over the top. Matt pulled himself over the intermediary wall and into no man's land, breaking into a sort of half dash, his men beside him and around him, they charged.

Going across no man's land was nothing short of a trial run through hell. There was the barbed wire, the German's remaining artillery, trench holes, and occasionally gas attacks. Matt just pushed forward, ignored it all, gun clenched tightly in his hands gaze forward tracking the land before him.

Artillery rung out in the silence, and he bit his lip at the few that fall, their live flickering and guttering out like a candle. He could feel them fall. He would mourn them at the battles end, names still curled on the bridge of his nose, and the skin of his forearm, the roll of his tongue. Names and faces that he couldn't forget, wouldn't forget. Like the date, like the feel of the bullet already embedded in his shoulder (it hurts like a bitch, but the pain is tolerable enough).

Matt fell to the ground then, the advance halted for the next round of artillery that blasted overhead like raging gods, and the swept seas of the south. He breathed in the thick mud and laid still, there was another soldier to his left, part of the Third Corps, his name was Bill. Matt ascertained this with a short glance to the side infinitely thankful for the one small gift of his immortality. Calen was a few feet in front of him, he couldn't miss the red hair if he had been trying. It strengthened something of Matt to see the province.

In the echoing ringing pounding silence, that was hardly deserving of such a name (but when you hear shells every day the shock only jumps out occasionally), he could almost hear his heart beat in his chest. Loud and heavy, like it carried the weight of all the lives of the battlefield within it's corded muscles. He could almost tap into it all, the bloodlust, fear, hope, determination, a swirling maelstrom in his breast.

Then they were up again charging forward. And that seemed to drown out all other thoughts. Move. Forward. Charge. Survive.

Matthew cursed under his breath as the barbed wire dragged at his leg, and a shell exploded nearby, loud and far closer than he had thought. It snapped his body back like a rag doll. He landed in a nearby shell hole, mud and dirt clinging to his uniform and heightening the familiar taste of blood. With a curse his vision rapidly began to fade to darkness, he felt the injuries like a pulsing sensation. Fatal in any circumstance. A piece of shrapnel lodged near his heart, not to mention the blood loss.

Matt could pull himself together within a few moments and join the charge. And he hated it as he watched his comrades, his brothers fall. And he just got up and walked away barely a scar to name. He choked in a few rattling breaths and briefly thought of Al, and Arthur, and Francis.

He let himself fall to death's ever reaching grasp then, between a breath. In the next he slowly crawled to his feet, heaving breath, limbs disjointed, organs still settling into place, his gaze centring on the soldiers crouched and sprawled upon the ground. Hard to see in the smoke-filled battlefield but there nonetheless.

Matt took a deep breath and dragged a hand over his brow smearing dried blood and pushing aside stray strands he took a breath, and when the signal went he popped to his feet and darted forward.

X

He sensed the two immediately, a pre-set warning bell, one that any nation possessed, that rung shrill and fierce till he looked across the ridge, the bloody godforsaken ridge, and saw the sneaks of blond and oh so distinguished snowy white under their helmets. His lips curved into a sneer as the German troops rush forward, attempting a counterattack.

It had been three days and Matt was tired and weary, every muscle in his body seemed to want to collapse and his uniform was slicked with blood. They had rested their forces once night had fallen on the first night, but it didn't ease the ache in his chest. But they were on the ridge now, and a blond youth was charging towards him gun pointing into Matt's eyes.

He growled and ducked, driving his bayonet into the man's chest, he crouched and held the gun steady before he picked off a few poor sods. He fell into the rhythm, that endless pounding rhythm that fills like white noise, and left the reins loosely within his hands.

Slash, dodge, run, duck, slide, on and on the actions, repeated as the Canadian forces moved up the hill. Climbing through remaining barbed wire, over the trenches, and through the narrow alleys fighting in close quarters; he fell into the senses of battle. It was endless bloodshed over and over.

Matt had passed the front line when he came upon Prussia. The albino nation was grinning, blood staining pale skin macabre, eyes alight with bloodlust. Matthew just swung his bayonet and dodged the other's strike, he ignored the stinging cut across his cheek, the shredded skin of his leg, and crouched kicking a leg out to try and trip the empire.

There was a feral grin on his features, small, and noticeable to Matt only for the way it was mirrored on the older Beilschmidt brother's features. The older nation was cackling rambling something mad that Matt didn't care for. Instead in the intermarry he swung the but of his gun towards the albino's chin, landing a solid hit, before another German soldier came up behind him.

Matthew ducked the overhead bayonet strike and turned striking the youth in the solar plexus, knocking his breath out with a wheeze. Matt whipped his gun out and jammed the end into the boy's temple if he survived he survived. War didn't make fair of death and life or morality.

Prussia was charging again, and Matt ducked the charge swinging around to aim his gun at the nation's exposed back. He prepared to shoot when the younger of the Germanic siblings appeared followed by two soldiers, still young but so powerful.

Matt aimed his gun and watched with steely eyes as Germany stared into his eyes, there was a conversation, a warning of what was to come. One of the soldiers recklessly charged in the still silence and Matthew sidestepped the swing and shot the soldier in the chest, lips curved into a frown.

The air crackled with tension and Matt turns his attention to the blond, who was staring at Matt all assessing gaze. The blond nodded to himself and turned trusting whatever he had seen in Canada's eyes. Matt frowned, and the gun twitched in his hands but didn't fire. He would meet the younger Beilschmidt on the field another day, and he would cut the bloody Hun down in battle. For now, he watched the two brothers retreat with eyes cold as the north of his lands (the places where silence is tangible and winter kind).

He watched the two disappear before he blinked once to himself and turned his gun on a soldier cautiously approaching from the rear, without blinking Matt fired the gun and turned his attention on the other approaching soldier and parried his bayonet.

It was finally almost over. The German forces were retreating, and Matt pushed back viciously, expression feral at their retreat. Falling back to trenches a fair distance back, licking their wounds at the loss. As the generals mustered the corps the artillery fell silent and the battlefield began to haunt with the cries of the dead.

Matthew followed the nearest sound and crouched beside a young man, German if the cross was any indication. There was a bullet in his arm, and a scrap of a left leg, Matt bandaged the arm and leg with the remaining strips of his uniform and slung the unconscious man over his shoulders carefully carrying him to the field hospital. At the end of it, all the injured were the injured. They would become prisoners of war. But first, they make sure they won't die.

Coughing racked his chest harshly, and he crouched in the fields for a moment. He could feel the losses like cool pinpricks across his skin, that burn and pulse, like wafting smoke and guttering candles. Matthew took a breath (not particularly deep that would hurt), and rose to his feet, jostling a low groan out of the man slung across his shoulders he made his way to the field hospital.

It rustled a bit of brightness in his eyes when he saw Sam aiding John there were tears there, and Matt could feel the dried tracks staining his own cheeks, hidden as they were by a liberal amount of blood and mud. But there was a sense of euphoria that bounced around his chest, a sense of something. He felt like one.

X

The hospital was heavy with the acrid scent of sterilization, it burned Matthew's nose, and made his eyes water occasionally. But the nurses had left the windows open, and there was a nice enough, though a bit chilly, spring breeze about the room. He was sharing the large space with five other men, lieutenants, and Peyton, who had gotten half his leg blown up, the golden wheat-haired province had cursed up and down the halls since they had brought him in. It made Matthew want to shush the province, just as much as he wanted to fuss over the younger personification.

He would have preferred to be among the others; the poor bloody infantry on their cots, soothing what little he could with his presence, talking to the soldiers. Instead, he had been settled in the room, with a heavy stack of paperwork backlogged from god knows what, and set to rest as the nurses who possessed hidden cyanide (and they were Canadian of course) and perfect smiles had left him.

He was hardly injured anymore, he healed faster than Peyton would, and he managed well enough to revive himself from anything particularly mortal. But nonetheless, he had been set in the hospital under Currie's stern eyes. Idly his gaze flickered over to the fresh scar running the length of the underside of his forearm, Gilbert had gotten a shot in (he hadn't even felt it). It could fade, but Matthew doubted it, scars from other nations tended to stay, unlike the network of scars that marred his lower back (right below the still tender patchwork of healing burns scarred on his left shoulder).

Dull chatter filtered from outside the half-closed door, and Matthew looked up, tilting his new glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose up. He crinkled a brow at the footsteps accompanying the noise and set his pen down on the document he was signing requesting another munition factory in Toronto.

A nurse appeared in the doorway, hair pulled into a tight bun, a sort of weary kindness to watery blue eyes, Nancy hovered for a moment gaze flickering to the visitors outside the doorway before falling to Matt. He nodded, briefly glancing at the other soldiers in the room, most were asleep, a kindness from the Scottish nurse with a cheery aura about her or otherwise preoccupied with letters. Peyton was in a half state of delirium eyes centered on the stone ceiling above.

Nancy entered the room bringing with her what he supposed were his visitors. Matthew blinked rapidly in half shock as Arthur entered the room with a slow walk, followed by Francis who well possessing the ever-airy nature was weary and haggard in appearance. What surprised Matt the most was Alfred tucked behind the two older nations, looking lively if a bit sombre in the morose aura of the hospital.

Francis spotted him first tucked against one side of the room, in half daylight. The French man glided over and placed a warm kiss on Matt's cheek, drawing him into a half hug he murmured softly, "Bonjour mon fils. Comme ça va ?"

"Bonjour Papa. Je suis bien, mais fatigue. Et-tu ?"

Matthew responded with a warm smile as Francis pulled away and settled into a nearby chair with a bone-weary sigh, and a self-deprecating smile serving his answer. Arthur approached then, breaking off from the hushed conversation he had been having with Al, he took Matthew's hand and placed a light kiss on his brow eyes crinkling in mirth and love, even as the typically stiff Englishman said nothing. There was a subtle pride in his eyes that left Matt feeling significantly warmer in the dull chill of the room.

He wondered why the two nations were here, and not upon their own battlefields. As far as Matt had understood from the last meeting of the Entente powers, the Nivelle offensive was to involve both British and French forces (as well as the colonial forces hence Vimy). He had read the reports, and as far as could be understood the offensive had ultimately failed. If he looked closely he could see it there in Francis' finely shaking hands, and the furrows of Arthur's brow.

"Are you both okay, I heard…"

Matt questioned softly, earning soft looks from the two parental nations. Francis shrugged and murmured something faint about mutiny, Arthur nodded and replied, "Well enough Matthew."

It was all he could really hope for upon the fields, he supposed.

Al stepped forward drawing Matt's attention, he was staring at Matthew, gaze intense like a focused crystal. Matt smiled weakly and waved slightly, it was enough for Al to snap out of whatever he had been thinking and pull him into a tight crushing hug. If anything could be said of Al, it was that his strength had only grown since their childhood.

"What are you doing here Al? I thought you weren't supposed to arrive for another month?"

Matthew asked in the whispered tight space between two brothers. Alfred pulled back and beamed all radiant light and puppy-like enthusiasm he replied, "Couldn't wait to see ya, Mattie. Anyhow the troops will be arriving like ya said."

The arctic personification just shook his head and smiled genially at his brother as Al perched himself on the edge of the bed. It settled some knot tangled up in his chest, right beside the one made of heartstrings and losses, to be surrounded by his family.

"So, Mattie I heard you fought Prussia? How was that? And your guys took a crazy amount of soldiers. Seriously?"

Al exclaimed bouncing about besides Matthew, he blinked a bit before acclimatizing to his brother's nature with a nod. Francis quirked a brow to Matt's left, a flicker of hurt and grief passing in singing blue hues before he questioned, "You faced Gilbert, Mathieu?"

Matt nodded and tenderly showed the (now) worried older nation his sleeve, Francis fussed over it for a few moments, while Arthur with all the airs of nonchalance carefully checked Matthew over. He could see it underneath Alfred's bubbly persona that the southern nation was also worried, in the twinkle of star-like eyes.

He reassured them softly with a gentle smile, happy in a faint way that his family cared about him. Peyton mumbled something in the midst of their fussing, and immediately Alfred was on his feet sliding over to the province close to his borders, grilling him on his state and the shell that had temporarily amputated his leg.

Laughter drifted about the small hospital room, as Matt verbally released his mirth at his brother's actions, earning shared looks from Arthur and Francis. He didn't much care for them and instead only shook his head. There would be mourning, and graves to be dug, soldiers to be healed, but for the moment he took health in the pride that lingered in England's eyes, and the unity that seemed to thrum at his fingertips.

X

Okay there was my take on Vimy.

Translations :  
Bonjour mon fils. Comme ça va ? – Hello my son.How are you?

Bonjour Papa. Je suis bien, mais fatigue. Et-tu ? – Hello Papa. I am good/well, but tired. And you?

Merde - Shit

History:

So the battle of Vimy Ridge took place from April 9th to the 12th in 1917. It was part of a much larger plan known as the Nivelle offensive (named after the general), or the Chemin de Dames offensive. It was supposed to be this great series of attack that would defeat the Germans and take back miles of land. Ultimately the offensive was a failure, and in fact the French forces mutinied after the attacks as they had suffered such great casualties. As Vimy Ridge was part of the Nivelle offensive, it is often less widely known, and receives less mention.  
Vimy is considered one of the Canadians most successful battles, as it united the four Canadian Corps (pronounced core) in one battle, under the command of sir Arthur Currie. It was also the battle that had the highest success rate in capture of artillery and prisoners. The history of Canada refers to the First World War as Canada's Baptism of fire, and this battle brought about a great sense of unity among the soldiers (who were mostly English-Canadians, but also French, indigenous, Asian etc.). Before the battle the soldiers thought of themselves more as English rather than Canadian but afterwards there was a sense of nationality.  
What made the battle so successful was it's extensive planning, maps were indeed given out to every soldier, and a model scale was also built. Curie in essence made sure each soldier had an understanding of the battlefield, and their method of attack, which was a German tactic, the Crawling Barrage. Additionally, a large number of explosives were brought in.

Other references:

So, there are actually tunnels under Vimy Ridge, I actually had the pleasure of going and seeing them. The soldiers often carved their regiment insignia into the walls, but there were other things such as crosses, and there was even a postal box, where soldiers would place letters to go home in before a battlefield.  
I will post some of the pictures from that trip on my tumblr Arowen12freelancer here: blog/arowen12freelancer  
Lighters did exist in the First World War, and actually they were invented before the match. The first was invented in 1837.  
The YMCA is mentioned, and they did actually play a large part in supporting soldiers on the front lines like the red cross. They sent hundreds of tons of paper and envelops to the front lines for the soldiers to write with (which was very valuable to a soldier's moral), brought them front tea, and paid for sports equipment for the soldiers.  
I briefly mention horses, this is because the animals were often still used in the First World War. They were mostly used for pulling carriages, or artillery.  
The United States entered the war on the 6th of April, because of the distance they would not have arrived in Europe for a few months at least. They entered because Germany resumed unrestricted submarine warfare.

For anyone interested in history exclusive to WW1, there's a Youtube channel called The Great War, that does a week by week coverage along with special episodes. It's amazing and I would 100% recommend.

Thank you all for reading, reviews/comments are always appreciated. Till next time!


	2. Ypres: April 22 1915

Hello everyone, it's been roughly a year since I've posted. I've been working on this chapter for a while but rushed to finish it for Remembrance Day. I've always been fascinated by the battle of Ypres so this chapter explores that battle and its devastating effect. Note: when writing about Germany it is from the perspective of the soldier and does not reflect the views of the author. Read on.

X

It was warm for April, though Matthew supposed that was in contrast to his country's somewhat (that was putting it mildly) harsher weather conditions. France was just shaking off the dredges of winter and he could feel it in the sweat beading the back of his neck under his somewhat new uniform. Matt had only been on Francis' lands for a month and a little while but already he was beyond weary of the battlefield; the constant barrage of artillery, the endless mud, not to mention the scale of death. Something Matthew had never seen before; this wasn't the war of 1812.

When his soldiers had set out, the boats lining the harbour, it had been with ideas of glory, a quick spat over before Christmas. Matthew had felt their euphoria at the news of war somewhere by his heart, an emotion that fluttered and beat like the war drums crowding the streets.

The nation shifted in the trenches, glancing at the water seeped soil, at the soldiers milling about the barracks in a sort of endless spiral of boredom. Waiting for the next attack under the harsh light of the overhead sun.

Matthew regardless of his people's beliefs had known the war would be more than an honour mission to fight for a bit and gain a touch of glory. It wasn't another spat between England and France, or the recent war between Russia and Japan.

It was a war that encompassed more of the world over than anything Matthew had seen before and it scared him. The thought of the war sweeping across nations, taking lives and bringing with it a wave of destruction. Matthew wasn't ashamed to admit to such fear.

Not with the massive technological developments sweeping the fields, or rather bombarding the fields, and the early retirement of cavalry attacks. Bombs, machine guns, trenches, aerial and nautical warfare, the invasion of Belgium all of it compiling together to form one terrible picture, Matt didn't mind being in the fields, he didn't mind serving or as he preferred to think of it aiding Arthur (even if there had been no choice in the matter. The moment the Empire was at war so was Canada). What did hurt, was the sight of the young boys in the trenches and upon the battlefield accompanied by the thought of what was coming to his people.

He could easily understand Alfie's mutterings about the European nations and their penchant for war. The Northern country could also understand why his southern half had refrained from entering the war. It had still warmed him something fierce when Al had appeared at the docks, knowing his President wouldn't be happy but the blond was there regardless.

They had embraced a farewell of unspoken words as Alfred pushed a small lighter into Matthew's hands uncharacteristically serious as he lectured his brother on returning the keepsake. Matthew only hoped his brother could avoid the war entirely.

"Matthieu, mon Cher are you alright?"

A familiar voice that was like cut silver pulled Matthew from his drifting thoughts. Idly coming back to his senses Matt took a drag from the mostly dead cigarette and looked up catching a halo of familiar golden curls that reminded Matt of Peyton's fields stretching out for miles on end; God he missed his home already.

"Oui Papa I'm fine."

Matt replied after a moment where he could almost feel his father figure's concern at the silence or relative silence. Francis nodded his head and nicked Matthew's cigarette with a playful wink, smoking the cigarette with an inherent grace and poise that Matthew had always admired greatly as a child.

"There's word that the Germans are planning something."

Francis stated, his eyes flickering momentarily to the North line where the troops from Algeria were stationed, inexperienced in the typical European spring and unprepared for battle but willing to fight. The northern nation had met Algeria a few times, the nation was old with lines of experience around his eyes but a kind smile.

They were both stationed in Ypres, a border town that held access to the ports which were vital for France and England to ship in support and supplies.

Matthew hummed in acknowledgement his own eyes flicking to the troops around him before returning to the man who had practically raised him. The older nation crooked a smile at Matthew one that didn't reach his eyes before the blond stepped forward and placed a chaste kiss on Matt's forehead, ignoring sweat-stroked strands and the dirt of the trenches.

Canada quietly gestured with his fingers from his lips and France's blue eyes crinkled fondly before the man sighed and with a final wink turned away from the younger nation and continued through the trenches. Matthew watched France walk away as he pulled out a new cigarette and flipped his lighter, wondering idly if Quebec would join the war with the disdain of it the province held.

The young personification shook his head with a soft chuckle and looked at the same trench wall he had been staring at all night.

X

The morning stillness hung over the battlefield accompanied by a tenseness that Matt could feel in the dampness of his bones as he stood still and alert. Howard stood across from him, dirty blond hair glinting pale in the faint sunlight as the province smoked a cigarette with something close to nerves.

Matt shifted on his feet and tightened his grasp on the gun beside him as they waited. The first round of artillery was always jarring, crashing into being as if right beside you as the shells sunk into the muddy earth and sent dirt and debris flying.

Howard flinched and Matthew flashed the province a reassuring smile even as his eyes searched the barracks, wondering if a runner would appear carrying their orders. They were crazy brave those that ran messages, and Matt knew Nova Scotia had taken up the job due to their smaller stature and light build.

The shells continued to collide with the earth in loud crashes and bangs, deafening and striking never knowing where or when they would arrive. Then they stopped and a silence hung over the battlefield, Matt placed his helmet on his head (his fair hair was practically a beacon) flashed a ghost of a smile at his province and climbed to the outer edge of the trench, peering over with careful eyes. No Man's Land stretched out for a few kilometres filled with barbed wire and craters thick with mud and debris. It was a desolate view one that held no life in its grasp and tolerated little of the same.

Creeping across the barren pock-marked stretch of land was a thin cloud, blowing with the wind, it was a pale green or yellow in colour and seemed to move slowly. Matthew furrowed a brow at the strange sight, biting his lip as he considered the strange cloud, something about it tugging at his chest. The nation wondered what the bastard Huns had planned.

Slipping down from the upper wall the nation turned towards Howard who was staring at Matt with something dark as he smoked the cigarette before he passed it to Matthew and asked, "How's it look?"

"The usual shite, but there was a green fog of some sort drifting towards the north trench line."

Matthew responded earning a grimace from the province at the mention of the strange smoke, that or the Germans. Releasing a sigh Canada settled against the wall and shifted the damp cloth sticking to his neck as he pulled out a cigarette. There was nothing to do but wait, they couldn't move till the orders from the High Command were given.

Howard after a minute pulled out a deck of playing cards and began to shuffle them with a grace and speed that Canada knew the man had picked up from his meetings with the Prime Minister, Robert Borden. The quick flick of cards shuffling back and forth helped to fill the silence for only a little while before Matt couldn't help but glance towards the north where Algeria's troops were located, couldn't help the way his foot tapped an unsteady rhythm as he puffed on his cigarette.

Ontario was the same, tugging at his uniform and shifting every few seconds even as he continued to win at the card game with an ease that should have frightened Matthew but only made him proud.

The other soldiers also remained alert as the silence continued, someone coughing in the distance reaching their ears as the men glanced towards the battlefield and towards the communication trenches with thin lips.

The runner appeared from the rear, one of the entrances that were linked to the line of communication and support trenches behind the front line. The soldier was slightly out of breath a pink flush on pale cheeks visible beneath the brim of the man's helmet. The soldier paused searching out the soldiers for rank before landing on Matthew who had the visible insignia of a lieutenant stitched to his uniform. The man with hair like the orange blossoms of spring darted forward and saluted quickly standing patiently for all the urgency spread in every inch of his being.

Matthew saluted in return and nodded for the runner to deliver the report. The man took a gasping breath and relayed, "General Alderson has ordered your company to move to the north trench line to cover the retreat of the Algerians. Poison gas has been suspected in the retreat and has caused multiple injuries. The order has been spread that the gas can be halted by pissing on a cloth and keeping it to your face."

The young nation grimaced at the information and orders the runner had delivered. Poison gas, the thought of it made Matt frown, it went against the very nature of the Hague Convention. But of course, what could one expect from the honourless Germans.

With a salute, the runner nodded and sprinted down the zig-zag path of the trenches carrying his message to the others. Howard stepped up beside Matthew a white-knuckled grip around his gun as Matthew turned his attention to the soldiers around him.

"Gather into your squads and prepare to move out. We're defending the north trench from the Germans who have used poison gas. Spread the word to piss on a cloth and be ready in ten minutes."

The soldiers nodded or saluted depending on the man and darted into action gathering helmets and waterlogged boots, tugging out pieces of cloth or handkerchiefs. Howard handed Matthew his helmet the dull metal reflecting the light as he tugged it over his hair and snapped it into place.

The province stood beside Matt for a moment staring down the row of trenches with clear eyes that seemed to reflect the youth the province held for all of his experience. Matthew bumped his shoulder gently against the younger personification's shoulder and cracked a half-smile.

A half hour later their company was moving through the trenches towards the area the Algerian troops had been defending. As they drew closer a queer smell filled the air one that reminded Matt vaguely of the fruit Al was always so proud of that his country grew. Beyond the strange scent, the sound of their fellow soldiers suffering soon became apparent, coughs and the moans of the dying.

The trenches were filled with a fog that was slowly thinning with the winds but sunk into every crevice in a pale green hue nonetheless. The soldiers quickly moved forward some holding cloths against their mouths as they all moved into position, the medics checking the bodies lying still with death before moving them against the walls. Other medics ran forward loading the injured onto stretchers as their pained coughs echoed through the damp air. Even with the cloths over their mouths, Matt could taste the gas burning his tongue, itching through his skin, burning his eyes. He could feel the gas seeping into the lungs of his men as they moved forward to guard the trench line spread too thin.

Silence, thick and poignant as the gas, broken pitifully by the sounds of dying men. It was a tenseness that was stretched between the two opposing forces. Howard sidled beside Matthew, peered over the barbed wire as he coughed weakly into a cloth, crimson staining the pale grey. It was burning in both of them, in their soldiers, killing then and sinking into the trench, lingering. They waited for the Germans to take advantage of their weapon. The trench line had been broken for nearly half an hour before his troops had arrived. But the Germans had hidden in their trenches. And now they waited.

Howard coughed again and Matt spared the province a concerned glance through blurry vision. He was pale, his eyes red, blood staining his lips as his breath wheezed through his lungs. Matt cursed quietly and guided the personification down the trench wall and onto the packed muddy floor. All around Matthew, his men were dying and it was quiet. There were no artillery shells splitting the air, no guns ringing out. Just the sound of pain.

"Matt."

Howard called weakly his voice hoarse. Matthew pulled his gaze away from the bodies curled into themselves, the bandages stained crimson, and the silence. Howard was cold in his arms and something in Matt beside the burning in his heart and the blurriness of his vision ached. He knew Howard wouldn't truly die, that was the curse of who they were.

But death was far too real when held in one's own arms. Matt gently trailed his fingers over Howard's features and hummed a lullaby amidst the blood in his lungs, waiting for the artillery to sound. He wondered if being a colony was similar to being a presence. Did England feel it every time one of them collapsed on the battlefield, choking on their own blood?

Howard stilled in Matthew's arms, he could feel it the moment the province stopped breathing. It was a sensation akin to falling through thin ice (it had happened once and never again). The young nation blinked away the tears and his ragged breath as he settled the body on the ground. Howard would wake soon, but in the meantime, the artillery was starting.

A deafening boom shattered the air and Matt grabbed his gun, adjusted the cloth tied around his head and vaulted up the trench line. They were coming across No Man's Land, the green gas curling around their feet in the pale sunlight. Matt aimed and opened fire.

X

"Matthew you can't! You can barely see, hell you can barely walk and Ontario is still in the med bay."

"The Germans won't be able to see either. Dammit, I'm going to fight beside my soldiers Francis! Besides your forces are supposed to be part of the reinforcements."

In the shadows of the command tent, France leaned back and stared at him. Stared at the burning determination that was spoken about in whispers by nations familiar with Canada and sighed. The young nation he remembered was grown, forged in a crucible of fire.

"It's tantamount to a suicide mission. There's no reconnaissance, it's dark, and there's no heavy artillery."

The older nation argued and Matthew frowned and shook his head. Scrubbing a hand over his features and the ache in his eyes Canada reasoned, "The Huns won't expect this, we'll be able to reclaim the old farm. Besides if I die, I come back, they don't."

Wasn't that the crux of the matter, the reason they didn't want nations fighting their own war. Francis shifted as if preparing to argue once more.

"Hey, Lieutenant Matt are you coming?"

A voice called out in the humming fragrant darkness of France's night. Matthew placed a hand on his father's shoulder and let the silence speak before he turned away. The sound of his boots echoed in the night as Matthew ran to catch up with his men. France stared for a long time after the retreating form of the young nation.

X

They waited in the silence, the trees crept up all around them disturbing the stillness with a gust of wind and whispers. The 16th was just arriving, creeping over the dense forest ground, falling into formation as the Generals conversed with each other in the rear. Hughes had given the order a scant fifteen minutes before to organize into four lines 30 yards apart. It made Matt strangely nostalgic, recalling the rain pouring over his features soaking into the red of his military uniform.

It was a mess, that much Matthew could observe from what he knew of military tactics. He knew Francis had been right, but in the end, he would fight with his men regardless of what the Higher Command ordered or decided were intelligent military tactics.

No artillery, no reconnaissance, and a game of Broken Telephone. The 10th and the 16th hadn't communicated on the attack. There was nothing on communication from the remnants of the Algerian forces on reinforcement.

The men shifting around him weren't aware. There was Ryan Smith glancing at a photo of his gal back home, a model he liked to boast when he wasn't missing her. There was Bill Johnson staring up at the trees and searching for a hint of wildlife long fled amidst the guns and heavy artillery. So many of them who wouldn't see the dawn, or the soil of their home again.

The command rippled through the line, Matthew in the second wave straightened and tugged at the collar of his uniform, it always felt too damp. Rising from the chilled packed earth they moved forward, the shuffle of foliage beneath their feet and occasionally the snap of a branch seemed earth-shatteringly loud as if echoes of the earlier battle. They moved forward until they encountered the hedge of wire.

The company pushed forward snapping the barbed wire and immediately a hail of bullets split the night whole and swallowed its silence. Matt dropped to the ground with the others before the company sprinted forward charging towards the German defence line. The Huns out of the darkness came to meet them.

They clashed like the tide breaking upon the cliffs in British Columbia in a haze of darkness that felt like a night terror. Bursts of gunpowder and artillery lit up the night like fireflies and the troops shoved forward.

It was brutal and wild as Matt fought, at some point he had lost his gun. Whether it had been torn from his hands or lost in an explosion he didn't know. There was a bullet in his thigh, though the pain had long since numbed to a dull burning that was overwhelmed by the burn behind his heart and the feeling of lives drifting from his fingertips like sand. It was always worse when Matt was standing amidst the death.

A flare went up, bright and crimson casting everything in harsh lighting. Matt stumbled and dropped to the ground as others fell around him. Bullets and artillery roared overhead crying out in the night as Matt's bones shuddered beneath his skin.

A German soldier loomed in front of him, his hat cast his features in shadows so that he felt inhuman; perhaps he was. Matt shoved his elbow into the soldier's jaw and slammed his fist into the man's stomach. The soldier wheezed and dropped to his knees, his fingers slack on the barrel of his gun. Matt stared at the soldier for a moment, the High Command had delivered the orders to treat their prisoners nicely in some attempt of following the Hague Convention.

Matt jammed the butt of the man's own gun into the back of his head. The soldier collapsed and Matt studied the gun for a moment before he turned and continued moving forward. All around him in the half-light of the early twilight hours Matt could make out the shape of bodies on the ground.

Oblong Farm, that's the name Henry Williamson gave him when asked, was captured sometimes before the dawn, they flooded forward chasing the Germans out as the woods heaved around them barren and skeletal. Matt crouched against a brick wall, letting it support him as he gasped for breath blood staining his fingers and filling his senses with the taste of copper.

The dawn broke through the skyline in hues of pale gold and cerulean. It was utterly beautiful and for a moment Matthew forgot about the war, about the suffering, the death.

The order rippled through the soldiers they were retreating to the southern position. Matt wanted to be angry that they were retreating but he could feel the weight of the lives lost tonight heavy on his chest like broken ribs.

Matt tipped his head back for a moment and let the weight of those alive pulse through his senses. Shouldering to his feet Matt offered a hand to Scott, young, too young, with a brother who didn't make it through the night. For now, only the horror of war darkens his eyes, the loss of it hasn't come home.

The light of the sun began to scatter through the trees, they need to move quickly. Matt tucked the stolen gun over his shoulder and with a nod to the soldiers, their eyes as wide as his own, they move forward.

X

Matt breathed through the mud, the gas, the blood as they defend the Salient. The Germans were focusing their attention on the Canadian line. Artillery fired and shattered the air ringing through his skull. They wouldn't give in, that wasn't who Canada was.

A shell landed. Matthew breathed and rose to his feet and picked up his gun. They kept fighting.

X

Thank you all for reading. It's important to remember that this year (2018) is the centennial of the Armistice of the First World War. There were over 1 million casualties in World War 1 and over 6 million in World War 2. Below is the information about the battles depicted in this chapter. Lest We Forget.

The Battle of Ypres

This battle occurred on April 22 in 1915. It was one of the first major attacks on the Western Front as previously the Central Powers had focused on Russia. The Canadians, British, French-Algerians were some of the main combatants in the battle. It is famous for the use of Chlorine gas, which is incorrectly reported to be the first use of gas in the First World War. However, this is incorrect gas warfare was used before World War 1 in colonial battles. And France used tear gas in the start of World War 1. Moreover, the Germans first attempted to use chlorine gas in the war in Russia. However, in sub-zero temperatures (such as those found in Russia) chlorine gas freezes rendering it ineffective. This is the reason why when the gas was first used in the battle it was so powerful. No one expected its deadly effect, the Germans or the Allies. Chlorine gas is an incredibly effective weapon when used correctly, it burns soft tissues such as the eyes, mouth, and lungs (it was also rumoured to have a fruity smell). At that point in the war gas masks had not yet been invented.

The attack occurred at 5pm, the gas was released in the direction of the French-Algerian trench line. The Upper Command thought the greenish/yellow gas was a smokescreen for an attack by the Germans. This is why the soldiers were unprepared for the attack. The gas was heavier than oxygen and settled in the trenches leaving a large gap in the trench line as the soldiers fled. It was the Canadians who reinforced the line preventing the Germans from taking it. Which would have been a devastating defeat for the Allies. The town of Ypres was a major port for the Allies.

The Germans were shocked by the effectiveness of the chlorine gas on the allied forces. This prevents the German forces from mobilizing quickly and allows the Canadian forces to fill the gap in the trench line.

The Canadian forces under General Alderson shifted to cover the gap, using cloths had been urinated on to defend against the gas (Ammonia which a property of urine neutralizes chlorine). It is thought that Capt. Francis Scrimger of the 2nd Canadian Field Ambulance may have passed the order to use urine.

The Battle of Kitchener Woods

That night the 10th Battalion was assembled and ready to go at 11pm. The assault was meant to retake lost ground. The 10th and 16th Battlion both had over 800 men that were ordered into 4 lines, which would allow 4 waves of attack.

At 11:45 the troops moved through the forest in silence. However the troops stumbled onto a line of barbed wire, the soldiers broke through the wire and attracted German artillery. The two battalions surged toward the German position.

As the battalions crashed into the wood, having lost many senior officers in the charge, soldiers of both battalions thoroughly intermingled, and fell on the Germans with rifles, bayonets, and even rifle butts and bare hands. Algerian troops accompanying the Canadians led the attack towards the right, towards their former positions. The Germans began to surrender, but many were still shooting, and there were relatively few attackers and as a consequence, according to the battalion's second in command "very few prisoners were taken and many lives were lost by the enemy forces." The Canadians had hit the boundary of two regiments, the 2nd Prussian Guards and the 234th Bavarian Infantry, and taken one of their colonels prisoner.

By midnight, it was over, fifteen minutes after it had begun. A German prisoner paid the 10th the ultimate compliment, acknowledging to his guard "You fellows fight like hell" as he was marched to the rear. Inside the wood, the 4.7-inch guns of the 2nd London Heavy Battery were found - with the bodies of some of their crew lying intermingled with German bodies - lying abandoned after a ferocious fight.

The battalions reorganized, but the fighting was only beginning. A German redoubt in the southwest corner of the wood was still holding out. Further attacks on the German hold-outs were brushed off by machine-gun and small-arms fire.

By 2:30a.m., Lieutenant-Colonel Leckie of the 16th Battalion realized that there were too few men on the ground to hold the wood, and he ordered a withdrawal to a trench on the south edge. During a roll call in the morning, of the 816 that had set out the previous night, only 193 were left on their feet. The 16th Battalion was down to 268 all ranks.

The Battle of St. Julien (mentioned briefly)

The fierce battle of St. Julien lay ahead. On April 24, the Germans attacked in an attempt to obliterate the Salient once and for all. Another violent bombardment was followed by another gas attack in the same pattern as before. This time the target was the Canadian line. Here, through terrible fighting, withered with shrapnel and machine-gun fire, hampered by their issued Ross rifles which jammed, violently sick and gasping for air through soaked and muddy handkerchiefs, they held on until reinforcements arrived.

Thus, in their first major appearance on a European battlefield, the Canadians established a reputation as a formidable fighting force. Congratulatory messages were cabled to the Canadian Prime Minister. But the cost was high. In these 48 hours, 6,035 Canadians, one man in every three, became casualties of whom more than 2,000 died.


End file.
